Brouillard
by BandGeek58407
Summary: In which Chaucer's emotions and society's norms clash and a confession must be made. Slash. Oneshot.


**Oneshot Fest 2: A Knight's Tale.**

**Random notes…inspired by the OAR song "Shattered." And I've always wondered about a slash relationship in the time period's context…1370s are a LOT more conservative than today, after all…**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. So sue me—actually, please don't.**

_**Brouillard**_

It's funny—I've always wanted to come to Paris, just not like this, not when I'll gladly subject myself to this icy downpour. Outside the tent for three seconds and my stubby bangs are plastered against my forehead. Well, no one said soaked had to be graceful, nor did anyone say fleeing had to be either.

And what's even funnier about this whole thing is I don't have the slightest inkling where I should be going. As I mentioned, this is my first time in Paris—so, of course, Mr. Geoffrey Chaucer picks now to disappear into the night. Splendid. Although, I must admit, my staying with that lot would have kept me just as lost as I am at the present. Where does one turn when the truth is cached away? Down that alley? Up the back of the Seine? To friends one cannot confide in? The rain?

The rain will listen—it has for ages, for eras, for eternity. Tell it your secret and it will disperse the truth into the earth and grow beautiful flowers and foliage to behold! There must be something wrong with mine: the black spot on my heart has made only mud, the kind that sullies up society, the kind people pelt with stones and declaim as unnatural. After all of my thoughts and daydreams in their presence, I ought to wallow in it. Yes, wallow in your grief: you might be noticed…or stepped upon.

"_I'm a writer: I give the truth scope!"_

What scope? The positive or the negative? What did I even mean, and why do I care?

I cannot return and drag them down with me when I'm discovered, for these types of ordeals always are. And then the acid would come raining down—with the herald a scandal, who's to say the knight is true? One stupid blunder and betrayal accomplished—

"_You betray us and I'll fong you until your insides are your outsides, your outsides are your insides, your entrails are your extrails—"_

No one desires that, Wat, so do not fret; I'm leaving. But what's a brief rest on the Seine? If it's to calm my quaking limbs, not a soul will mind that I'm still breathing their air for a few moments longer. The water is chilling on the tips of my bare toes…to the bone. Rattling, they scream the silent yet vocal mores pushing me from the fire that might provide warmth.

Isn't there some irony in the French language if the words for love and death—_l'amour_ and _la mort_—could almost pass as twins? Maybe it is not the coincidence I had laughed away as a young tyro if life. Everything's chasing me, even…even the edifice on the shadowy skyline, shrouded in the misty cloud of rain—beautiful in the sun, but terrifying in the gloom and darkness. So many find fire in its walls; I must find mine elsewhere…

"Ah, Notre Dame, you know why I'm alone," I breathe, and for a single moment I nearly think the remark is absorbed in the watery splutter.

"We don't, but no matter."

As soon as I recognize the slimy tongue, the front of my collar chokes my neck while they hoist me to my feet.

"Get off me, Simon," I sputter, finally catching the ever-needed air when he drops me to my knees.

"Not so confident without your wealthy liege, now are you?" Peter's words slither from his lips and flick my nose with their tails. "They don't know you're here." Unfortunately, it's not a question. "Are you up for a game of dice, Chaucer?"

Before my eyes can decipher the situation, Simon has me by the shirt once more, only with a tighter hold, and is leaning me over the river bank. "Or even better…a bet…on whether or not he can swim!"

"How many florins would you place on your life?"

"All that's in your pockets?"

"Or in Sir Ulrich's?"

In the downpour, our reflections are pockmarked by the ever-falling arrows, but their sneers are visible through the distortion. I can't see my face—though the lone clear view of my eyes shows more fear than I would like. What if he could see me now?

"What's it going to be?"

I fill my lungs with air and whatever bravado there is. "We're all sinners before a house of God—"

Silence in a thick, cold grave, and then my face is in the open again, dripping madly. The bravado collapsed and filled with water.

"Your pretty words can't help you," Simon whispered, close to my ear.

"And if you are so concerned with sin, purchase a pardon," Peter grinned slyly. "It will cost you a florin—or several—but what a deal!"

Now that they mention it, I do wonder if I can swim, and wouldn't it be so nice to just float away, gazing at the buttresses of Notre Dame as it faded to a speck and dumped mercifully into the Channel? That way, my escape is easy. That way I do not have to borrow more of their good money, and Wat won't be overtaken by the powerful desire to fong me, though I never mind it. What's a bloody nose after what these two regularly drag me through?

Lovely and beautiful.

And forbidden.

"What'll it be?" Even his words themselves seem to sneer. As they wait for my answer, I begin to shiver as the rain is absorbed into my bones, my shirt sloshing to and fro in its water-laden stupor. I forgot to grab my favorite jacket, stupidly enough.

I take a breath which is shallow from weakness and deep despite it. "I don't think—"

"Oi!"

In their surprise, Simon and Peter's hold releases and I fall nose first in a mud puddle reeking of their soles. I blink back the grime and try to comprehend the details of my fleeting salvation.

"Why don't you mind your own business, peasant?" I hear Simon say suggestively, followed by the newcomer's attempted reply.

"You don't want to be causing any unnecessary trouble," Peter steps in.

"Like 'ell! Look at y'selves!"

What luck, and I cannot even understand my own meaning of those words—for all of the human beings in God's creation to find me, it has to be the one to make my feet itch with a burn to fly and a thousand other places too, but today a thousand and one, for today, the first time, my eyes burn when I see him.

Oh, Wat! Can't you see I'm ashamed?

"Leave 'im alone or I'll fong you both." Unable stand and barely able to watch, I marvel at his unstuttered declaration. Could his tongue be calmed by the seriousness in his glare?

"I don't even know what that means," Peter chuckles, though not for long. My guess is that it is rather difficult to chuckle while being fonged.

Once the pardoner stumbles back to his feet (aided by Simon), Wat says quietly, "That answer y'question?" It is amazing that I could catch it over the rain, the constant deluge that can even tame his flaming head of hair that burns me at first glance. By now my blond should have faded away to a cinder black.

I'm so in love with him—love in the name of blasphemy.

I scarcely realize Simon and Peter have slinked away until Wat splashes down beside me. "Whatchoo think you're doin' runnin' off in th'middle of the night like that?" At the last second as an afterthought he adds, "I really ought to fong you, too." I don't make any sort of protest, and even from the farthest corner of my eye his confused frown is clearer than the rain. "I'm not _really_ going to fong you." This time I offer a nod but nothing else. "Geoff. All seriousness. Why y'out here?"

Isn't it funny how I'm on fire but the rain won't extinguish a flicker? So instead I emit light invisible, quite like a beacon of confessional prayer to God. No one else will ever know, or should.

"Geoff?" He carefully places a hand on my shoulder, searing an imprint of fingers on the skin. As soon as I twitch away, he does the same.

And so we sit—for how long no one can be sure. The misty black clouds float across the Parisian skyline and every so often Wat shakes his head like a dog to rid the excess from his hair. With each whip of the head, the spray careens toward me and I can pick out each separate droplet as it bubbles as oil does. And as much as it hurts, I feel my stomach curl up and hum.

"So you want to know?" I finally say.

He gives a faint laugh that is really more of a short sigh. "That's why I've been sittin' here with you." Brushing a long red lock from his eyes, he turns to stare, patient and impatient all at the same time.

I can't push the words past my tongue or even my throat. As they struggle, I cast my glance to Notre Dame and its giant eye staring down, watching, waiting to damn me. Poor Wat—I shouldn't wrap him up in my personal issue…despite his _being _the issue. And my eyes still burn in their sockets; thank God for the rain so he cannot tell.

"Well?" For once a hint of tender concern is laced in his speech alongside the continued impatience.

"Wat…" Slowly I get to my feet and begin to pace; he remains sitting. "Have you ever"—Lord, what am I doing?—"done something and kept doing it even though you knew it was wrong?"

"Well, yeah." Now that I'm conversing, he seems to want to stay nearby, as if I'm going to run for it. His feet grapple to find a hold on the slippery ground. "Violence is supposed to be wrong, but I still fong people all the time. Sorry 'bout that," he adds in an undertone, and I smile grimly. "Where y'goin' with this?"

Where indeed.

"Could…I, perhaps…show you?" Gracious God, teach me to restrain my tongue! Though I can barely help it when my chest is knotted so.

"Sure, I—"

"Just don't fong me."

"Why would I fong you when you're like this?" Behind his disbelief is roaring curiosity.

Eyes salty fireballs, I cup my hands around my nose and mouth, exhaling and trying not to collapse to dust. My bones course with the energy to fulfill my desire but my sense holds the reigns and the whips, and each time they're employed my heart dies a little. He's right there—within reach! Maybe there is no sense in this.

In one fluid, water-soaked step I close the space between us and grab his face forcefully and pull it so close—and I can hardly stand to keep my calm composure. Our lips touch and unwind the terrible knots so I can breathe freely, blissfully. Through the metallic, earthy odor of the storm, I can still smell him.

As I expected, he breaks it, but gently by a small push of his hand. "Geoff…we can't do this." Our eyes meet in the close proximity. "It's wrong."

"Why?"

At this, he grips his head, fingers entwined in his thick, saturated hair. "Don't make me think! It hurts!" He paces in a small circle a bit further away from where I've been rooted. What was I thinking? "Hell…you really botched it up this time," he mutters almost inaudibly.

Nobody pays any mind to the knife sticking from my chest, but no matter. "You didn't feel anything?"

"Just you kissing me!"

Another knife goes ignored, only this time it's serrated with his irritation and volume. "I'm sorry." Gradually rotating on my heel, I turn into the never-ending curtain of water, away from this and toward my original purpose. Hopefully Wat is a good liar so he can convince them about my disappearance.

"Oi…stop." Despite the lack of any force in the command, I obey anyway. "This is what you were doin' when they found you, wasn't it?" I say nothing and focus on the cobblestone beneath my feet and the thinning precipitation. "Don't leave—Will would have to make me herald," he half-chuckles.

"That _would _be a disaster," I grin slightly, facing him. "Am I overdue for a fonging now?"

He rolls his eyes and sighs a long sigh entwined with the weight of decisions, his feet moving stiffly in my direction. "All righ', Geoff. I'll make you a deal: you stay with us, and I'll…I'll…let you kiss me—but just once." Forcefully he holds up one finger. "That's _it_." In the ensuing pause, he squirms.

A smile comes to my face. "I accept!" But instead of grabbing his head, I move leisurely, inch by inch, loving his blue eyes squinting in uncomfortable anticipation. That blue, I've never noticed that before…

Our lips meet at last—sunshine in the light mist. Under mine, I sense his face scrunch up and twitch, but I go slowly: if I only have one for the rest of my mortal life, I might as well take my sweet, sweet time.

I cradle the back of his head.

I press him against me.

I chase the chastity of the kiss away.

Although his eyes are still squinted shut like a nightmare, the rest of the face I love is loosening, relaxing until those other muscles collapse to normal. Just then—

He shivers.

He tentatively wraps his arms around me.

He responds.

How long we remain there is a mystery; just as we are about to suffocate, I notice the rain has completely ceased and Wat looks dumbfounded. For a long moment, those wide eyes shift from side to side as thoughts of shock cross his face rather visibly, but he gazes up at me eventually.

"Would you be willing to renegotiate?" he breathes.

X

"_Strangers on this road we are on…we are not two—we are one."_

_-Strangers, by The Kinks_

XXX

**Woohoo. And just in time for Valentine's Day (kind of). **

**Please review! They make me smile. **


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